Member-only story
Earl Little, Father of Malcolm X
Like his son, his life was not in vain
at malcolm x street, lansing, michigan (for earl little[1])
& just around the corner is where they killed
your father. the street car tracks long
gone. bus service jetisoned them back in the
50’s. parking lot marks the intersection. bus
drivers sit there now & then & surf their
smart phones more than their customers. there is
nothing marking the death of this man, a garveyite,
dead right here regardless. nothing of his pride,
unbitten tongue, audacious nerve. if he had not come
as he came perhaps you would not have come as you
had come. if he had not spoken loud maybe you would
have been meek & things might still be as they
were so long ago & for so long. he never danced
so others could feel big. he died a hundred
deaths for what he believed. he rode his wagon
into the most difficult of places. sundown towns like
owosso where he chose to risk his demise than become the
walking dead. still we will never know what really
happened out here at this crossroad that is as quiet
as a city park mid morning everyday. did you tell
haley what you believed or what you knew? was it
real or just soapbox chatter to hide your wounded heart?
but this we do know: he walked upright. he spoke like
the earth beneath his feet was his as well. instead of
dismissing him maybe we can…